


mensonges

by Amber



Series: Create Something Every Day! (October 2018) [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
Genre: 19th Century, Crossover, Gen, October Prompt Challenge, Pastiche, Statement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 14:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Prompt 2: Victorian.





	mensonges

Statement of Rebecca Sharp, regarding the man who would visit her parlor. Incident took place some time during 1821, original document dated 2nd of October 1829.

I was never so fortunate as to have a happy childhood. Indeed, a case could be made that I had no such thing as a childhood at all. While I was often told I was appealingly waifish, I became a woman at the age of eight and I believe it was that maturity in my eyes which caught the attention of quite as many gentlemen as would approach me. I do not, of course, begrudge them: men will do as men will do. As I grew older and into my looks, this same belief that a young girl could have the desires and appeal of an adult began to reverse itself, and now I found myself in the company of men who deceived themselves that my factual age excused the appeal they found in the childish delicacy of my appearance. The point is, that between my father's alcoholism and the continual procession of hands and leering eyes upon my person, by the time I was a score of years I had discovered that men were not to, on any account, be trusted. 

I provide this detail not to accuse, but for clarity of explanation. My actions, as I am about to detail, upon finding a strange man in my parlor, were perhaps irrational, but I will not have them simply dismissed as the hysteria of woman, the presumption of which is a malaise that fouls the air of good society (a term I use only because it is in the common vernacular and not because such a thing truly exists.) 

When this occurrence first came about, I thought myself alone in the house, except for Bessy the oldest servant, who would never go to market or take a day off to go visiting, for she was all alone in the world and bad of back. But she was also hard of hearing, and on this day she was in the little room I had availed her of, in a soft chair with a footstool, and her knitting to keep her old hands busy, and both of us could enjoy our separate bliss of uninterrupted solitude until it was time to serve the tea. I preferred to be alone, truth be told, as it was a state of little artifice. I certainly was not expecting guests, so when I passed through my sitting room to fetch myself a cup of milk, that there was someone there was of great startlement to me.

I yelled, of course, and I must confess I behaved in a most unladylike manner in looking around for something to throw at him — there was nothing at all except the little china figures Miss Amelia had sent me as some gift or another, and while I was not particularly fond of them, the sight of them would always arouse her goodwill in such a way that I was loathe to break them and lose that advantage to our friendship, such as it was. 

"Be not afraid," the man said, and when I reached for the fire poker he stayed my hand. Oh, his black gloves seemed to grip my wrist so very tightly, but I did not feel the buttery leather upon my skin, but instead a cold sharpness, as though I were pinned between the flat of two blades, and the slightest movement would cut me. I went still, almost by instinct. The man laughed, then, and his laughter was unnatural to hear. It was as if it rippled around itself, an echo to my ears even before the first sound had ended. There was a boyish high note and a man's smoky bass, and if I had been scared before at this point I became terrified.

Despite all these unnatural happenings in the well-lit familiarity of my parlour, a corner of my mind that was not struck to silence by fear, had begun to race for an escape. Though I was beginning to doubt if this was any ordinary man, he still took the appearance of one, and perhaps also had therefore the interests and appetites. So I relaxed my muscles, and gave a coy glance of my hazel eyes upwards, shaking my head a little so that my curls spilled forward across my bare shoulders. I was only in house clothes, but I admit freely to my own vanity and, if I must, to a lack of modesty when alone, so it was still a lovely set and flattered my figure and milky skin greatly. Though I had intended to wear it simply for my own enjoyment, I now found it useful to perhaps compel this villain who had invaded my sanctum to some measure of sympathy.  
"Oh," spake I, " _Monsieur_ , whatever it is you want from me, let me give it to you. But we must be quick, for my husband will be home soon."

Scandalous, no? I will explain why I tell you my propositions to this stranger so freely: if this account surfaces from your Institute my reputation may take a blow, despite the incident taking place so many years ago, but I suspect that your reputation is so tarnished already that it will simply be discounted. What I describe could not possibly have happened, was no doubt simply a flight of girlish fantasy, and as such my bold words are similarly impossible. 

Besides, I had little intention of truly acquiescing to his desires. My husband was away at war, and my servants, as mentioned, were taking their Sunday. I only hoped to be given enough freedom to be able to flee my house and find refuge elsewhere, or failing that, reach the kitchen where the knife block sat. 

"Rebecca," the man said in response, disconcertingly familiar, "You have no need to fear me. You and I are old friends."

"Why, whatever do you mean?" I asked, astonished, and tried to peer into his face to see if perhaps I recognized him. Before Chiswick, where I had studied only among other ladies, I had known as mentioned quite some few of my father's friends, and thought perhaps this may be some figure from my girlhood. That would explain the familiarity — and also the manners.

"I am _Mensonges_ ," he told me, as though it was a name, though it was not a family I had ever heard of before. A French word, meaning lies — but he surely, thought I, did not mean to say that he himself was lies.

"Are you a friend of my mother's?" I asked, for though I had perhaps been dishonest with some members of good society about my mother's fortunes in order to overcome certain difficult barriers to my own, I had been truthful in saying she was from France. The man, however, only laughed again, that same chilling and sickening sound, and I grew frightened once again. "Please," I entreated him, "Let go of my arm."

He did so, but as he did he moved, and hemmed me in somewhat with his intimidating bulk, so that I could not escape. When I met his dark eyes I felt a strange dizziness overcome me. "Yes," he said, "Good," though I could only hear him as if from a distance. And though I have many times in my life fallen into a swoon so that a man's arms would catch me, or to end an unfortunate line of conversational inquiry, that was the first time I felt blackness truly take my vision, clouding the edges until I lost my balance and dropped.

He caught me, I believe — I was not awake to see, but my garments were rent so neatly and strangely that I cannot help remembering the strange steel way he had grasped my arm, and imagining those blades I could not see passing through my clothes as he was forced to take my waist.

When I awoke, the man was not there. Such a small incident, but I mark it as the exact point that events took a turn for the strange in my life. My servants began to report unnatural sights and feelings: several resigned, including poor old Bessie. Doors appeared where they should not be, and often I would catch myself staring off into space as I examined some weft in the wood of the floorboards, my eyes tracing it repeatedly. All my skill at embroidery turned to tangles, and when I sat down to the pianoforte intending to practice a simple hymn, my fingers would dance complicated patterns across the keys, filling the air with jarring, rapid soundscapes. My handwriting, as you can see clearly, became a looping scrawl, far from the neat hand I was taught as a girl — I became afraid to write my husband for fear that he would suspect me mad. If he had come home with that supposition he would have easily found others who would agree with him; several of my friends took to referring to my "fits", where I would be as a stranger to them, and speak of unnerving things. At the time I thought this was a practical joke, as I could never recall what I spoke of myself, but slowly my invitations to balls and dinners began to trickle to a stop.

This all took place about eight years ago. My husband returned, we hired new servants, a doctor prescribed me tinctures, my oddities became distant memory, and our place in good society (ha) resumed. I could almost have forgotten the incident — but I am here to tell you of it because, as you may have guessed, the man has appeared to me once more.

Again, he came in my parlour when I was all alone. Again, he cornered me and spoke with such familiarity that my husband would have no doubt challenged him had he heard. This time, however, I did not faint. I was awake and sprightly when he told me: "I have decided, then, that you are suited to be my wife."

"But sir," I said, and between us I was amused at his very male presumption. "I am already a woman married, nearly a decade now, and quite happy with it besides."

"You see? Still a liar," he said, and it sounded fond but I did take much offense to it, and beat at his chest with my fist. He paid me no mind. "At first I thought to frighten you, but I have seen over time that such a thing is impossible. Instead I will give you the gift of frightening others."

And then he took me with him and showed me, oh, such terrible things, in the winding mirrored passages. If they were corridors then they were made of the same stuff as heaven is, something ineffable to the mortal eye however close or far they stand to it. And oh, I heard the voice of my own mother, and breathed scents both fetid and sweet. I forgot to speak, and could only speak in tongues. At first he had an arm around my shoulder, and then it was only blades against my skin — I still have the cut on my left arm should you like to see it. A great deal of my hair came out in my hands. I travelled over ice and coals. When I turned again to see if I at last could recognize me I found only my reflection, walking alongside me amidst the halls of my very home.

And so, here I am, at your Institute, as I heard you take comittance not of people but their experiences. I felt it important to make your acquaintance, and pass on my tale that others might learn from it, or perhaps simply be entertained by it — I should never dream of writing a novel, being only a young woman of simple past-times, but there is surely no harm in telling stories to those who sit on the street and beg for them. I have a passionate regard for works of charity like that.

Post Script. Should you choose to call on my place of address, I would ask please that you do not speak of these writings to my husband. He is a delicate man, after the war, and can become wild when provoked. I do believe that being widowed has only increased the infection of his madness, especially since I make certain to visit and see him when I can. He often confesses his sins to me when I do so, and I know I should be affronted by those ghastly litanies, but men will be men, will they not?

Statement ends.


End file.
